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He pushed Claire down on her side, reaching over to grab a black sack he’d stashed on the floor. Something lying beside her on the leather seat tickled her nose, and Claire pulled her head back, trying to see past the empty junk-food bags scattered around her.
Suzanne’s red wig.
She looked at it and started.
He must have seen her reaction, because he glanced at the wig and chuckled. “I paid a visit to your apartment before I came to pick you up. Nice place. Didn’t have time to take the full tour. I just took what I needed and left. I’m looking forward to the blonde and the redhead.”
He yanked the sack over her head until she could see nothing but blackness.
“Stay down,” he warned, climbing over the console and into the driver’s seat. “It’s a short ride. Then the fun begins.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Suzanne wasn’t the one who was conducting surveillance—not this time.
The FBI and NYPD were crawling around her apartment building nonstop, and there was always one unmarked car parked at the fire hydrant across the street, where the pair of detectives could have a clear view of her apartment.
They weren’t even trying to hide the fact that they were keeping close tabs on her.
So, even though she usually handled things herself, this time was different. She and Glen had discussed the strategy he’d come up with. He’d had her contact Bob Farrell, the retired NYPD detective from the Twenty-sixth Precinct who’d provided Auburn State prisonguard Tim Grant with all the useful information Glen had required. Bob was well acquainted with Suzanne. She was the one who’d handed him his payments.
Given Glen’s escape and the high-profile attention it was receiving, Bob wasn’t thrilled to hear Suzanne’s voice—until he heard how much money she’d be paying him for a relatively simple assignment. Then, his tune had changed, and he’d happily accepted.
He used sophisticated binoculars to keep an eye on the Forensic Instincts brownstone. There were more security people there than he could count, and he wasn’t stupid enough to place himself in their line of vision. He kept his distance, just scrutinizing the fourth-floor window Suzanne had instructed him to. The blinds were all drawn, so he couldn’t make out people. But he could get brief glimpses of activity through the sliver of space between the blinds and the window moldings. Clearly, the room was a bathroom. And the hint of space was enough.
Bob watched, and waited patiently.
He got what he needed at around nine-fifteen.
A light went on. And the silhouette of a male figure filled the narrow sliver of space. The man was walking into the bathroom.
Bob remained as he was, staring intently. Sure enough, condensation began to build up on the windowpane.
He pulled out his burn phone and punched in a text to the phone number he’d been given.
He’s in the shower.
Glen Fisher smiled when he read the message. Agent Hutchinson was a creature of habit. Time to use that to his advantage.
He switched screens to his own text and attachment, which he’d readied for delivery an hour ago.
He gave it a quick glance. Then he hit Send.
* * *
Casey was thrashing around in her bed to the background noises of Hutch’s shower spray when her iPhone went “bing.” That meant she had a text message. Sitting up in bed, she scooted over to her nightstand and picked up the phone to check it out.
Unknown sender. No message header.
With a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, she opened the text.
Your life for hers, it read. Find a way out of there now. Come alone to 55 Ludlow Street, south of Grand. Use the gray steel door. It’s unlocked. If you bring any company, your friend dies.
Casey’s entire body went rigid. Fingers trembling, she clicked on the attachment.
It was worse than she’d imagined.
Claire was lying on a concrete floor, nude. Her arms were tied over her head, and her legs were separated, each ankle bound to a different post. There was visible bruising around her neck, and a look of stark terror on her face. The red wig was carefully arranged on her head.
